Domain
by smilebot
Summary: For an anon in the AC kink meme !o! Warning: For very mature audiences only. !o!EzioxLeonardo, numeric format: Dirty. Raw. Primal.
1. Chapter 1

**I.**

"H-Here," Leonardo whispered, looking back over his shoulder as he gripped the edge of the anvil. "I-I-I have one."

Ezio took one look at the thin animal bladder.

Took another at his cock.

And ripped the sheath into shreds.

"Does it _look_ like I use this?"

Widening his eyes, the older man barely shook his head as he fought to keep his eyes away from the destroyed casing, his body tense as Ezio towered over him. He bit his lip as he was roughly pushed back into his prior position and dug his fingernails into the hot metal, widening the space between his legs by the direct command of an insistent hand. The urge to break and turn was all too overwhelming, and for the longest of whiles, he contemplated any escape, even if he had to run out into the streets of Roma as naked as a newborn babe.

Yet, he was cut short, his face surely pushed down.

"That is what I thought."

Oh,_ God_.

"Now, bend over and show me that ass. I am not a patient man."

**II.**

He could not take it, anymore.

"Open."

He could not take it.

"_Wider_."

He really could not.

"Use your tongue like I told you to."

For it must have been the ache in his jaw, the hands pulling his hair back roughly, his trembling touch, that set his body ablaze with a malady that required him to settle his own ache—to at least bestow the slightest stroke, to take a bigger bite of the forbidden fruit. For it must have been that erratic tempo that controlled him, only him: the disheveled state of his self. For it must have been the darkest gaze boring into his incomprehensible desire to satisfy the man above him, where here he was on his knees, daring his eyes to see for that small sliver of acknowledgement.

For it must have been his open mouth.

That tongue.

The cock in his hands.

The _hunger_.

"Suck harder."

—that had him weakly pushing himself up on his forearms, his fingers gripping Ezio's thighs as he met that candid stare.

And had him praying: "_Per favore_." Again. "_Per favore_." Once more. "_Per favore_, Ezio."

His answer would consume him in the greediest of breaths.

"Did I _say_ that you can speak?"

But the truth was all too lucid.

**III.**

Breathing heavily, Leonardo fought against his body's resistance and continued to work the ivory phallus deeper inside of himself, stunned as his legs collapsed underneath him, only to leave him flat on his back with his throat used and raw. His vision blurred into nothing out of everything, until it morphed into a suffocating haze of shadows and carnal airs. And it was at that apex of desperation that he senselessly grabbed for the tool in his last stand for sanity.

"Faster."

And lost.

"Work it _deeper_."

Ezio latched onto his wrist in a crushing grip and forced him to do so, his gaze dark and predatory in the mindless depths of his control.

"Show me how much you love cock."

There was no other way.

**IV.**

"Lean back," Ezio harshly ground out, "and keep moving. Let me enjoy a show, for once."

Leonardo nervously nodded, leaning his hands back onto the other's chest as he slowly began to lower himself down—

"Too slow."

— Only to find himself roughly impaled before the next breath.

"_Oh_!" If only he knew. "_Oh_, _Dio_!"

Yanking the artist's locks back with his hand, Ezio scraped his teeth down the angle of a quivering jaw and possessed the former's ear.

"We can either do this the _easy_ way, or the _hard_ way."

"W-W-Wait, I-I—"

"_You_ can either move, or _I_ will take the initiative."

The fingers on his hips tightened.

The heat spoke volumes.

"Let us see if you _really_ are a smart man, da Vinci. For, as of the moment, I am _not _very convinced."

**V.**

On his hands. His knees. His face pushed to the floor.

"You know, I bet you have done this before."

In the open. Exposed. Broken from his completion a mere second ago. He responded to the gruff handling of his chest as he denied. Furiously. Indignant.

"_N-No_! I never d—"

"Look at _you_," he felt Ezio whisper against his shoulder, gripping his hips painfully as he continued to fuck him into the ground like the dirty, ravenous bitch he was. "_Lying_." Faster. "Do you know what happens to little boys who lie?"

God God God God God God—

Harder.

"They get _punished_."

_God_.

"They get punished," the assassin growled. "_Punished_."

"_E-E-E-Ezio_, _p-per_ _favo_—"

"So spread your legs, _little boy_. _Daddy_ is no _jester_."


	2. Chapter 2

**VI.**

Pressing Leonardo into the bed, Ezio pulled out and spent himself onto the other's back, the sharp sting of raw gratification spreading out from his core. He grabbed the older man's hips and slammed his cock back inside once again, swallowing a guttural cry as he began to take what was offered, what was _his_, and his fingers dug into the planes of a quivering stomach, to ghost them over Leonardo's chest. There was no complete satisfaction when eternal thirst caused him to rut as disastrously as a wild beast—there truly was not.

There was no cure.

And it was perfect.

**VII.**

_Uno._

_ Due._

_ Sei._

_ Diciassette._

_ Venticinque._

_ Quaranta._

When will it stop?

"You _love_ it, do you not?"

When did it begin?"

"_Say_ it. Say how much you love it—_need _it."

When did he _beg_ for hysteria?"

"Give it to me," he hoarsely cried out, digging his fingers into his buttocks as he spread his legs wider. "_P-P-Per favore_: Give it to me."

"How?"

"Harder."

_Sessantaquattro._

"_Faster_."

The hand came down onto his ass like wildfire.

"_More_."

**VIII.**

He must move faster. He must move harder. He must move.

Just simply _move_.

"You are disappointing me," he heard Ezio gravelly state, his legs and hands devoid of any force as he crumpled into the former's chest. The roaring ache in his hips robbed him of his breath, and even with his hair being yanked back, his vulnerable throat exposed for the taking, he could not act upon his instinctive drive to stir. "I know how much your ass can take."

He must move. Up his hips. Down his hips. Put his hands back on the younger man's front. He must—

"And right now—"

He _must_.

"The limit is not even close."

**IX.**

Leonardo tentatively reached forward, grasping nothing but the tendrils of angry heat that trapped his body in a coffin of its own doing. He dared not utter a single word for the fear of that promised punishment, nor did he rip off the blindfold obscuring his vision. Ezio was perhaps in front of him, to the side, maybe to the back—or was he here at all? How he wanted to know; how he wanted to _perceive_ that assurance: he who laid there on the cold ground after his painful release that required not a single touch to his cock; he who, despite the raw ache decimating his form, turned mad for more.

And more.

And _more_.

He who was the greediest fool of all.

**X.**

"You cannot touch it."

_Per favore_, let him touch it. Let him touch that scorning flesh draining him of all faculty and sense. Let him be free. Let him _feel_.

"You cannot speak."

_Cristo_, let him speak. Let his mouth move with the fierce desire to express his desperation and the broken state of his being upon the floor, as if he was the judged before the stand, with the darkness before him pushing his face down into the ground. Let him have what he wanted, what he _needed_. Let him taste Eden in all its wicked ecstasy and succor.

"You cannot deny me."

But, _God_, let him deny him. Let him perceive nothing but that dominance degrading him greedily as dirty caveats are forced into his ear.

"You cannot deny me what I already own."

And let him say no more.


	3. Chapter 3

**XI.**

"Rub it in."

His hands gripped Ezio's cock.

"All the way."

He listened, taking one last moment of selfishness to the surface as he mouthed the other, falling to his knees in skewed reverence at the mere sight of it all. It was here at this time that he was not da Vinci, but a simple, gluttonous creature that looked up at dark eyes and saw the true reflection of himself: the angle of his jaw, his lips, sanguine cheeks, his hair, dripping with Ezio's carnal satisfaction, the raw taste of forbidden desire branding itself onto his tongue. Time gave him nothing, and it was with every feeling—every _sensation_—that had him rubbing the essence into his face, over his eyes, pressing it into his flesh like an untamed child.

**XII.**

In vain, Leonardo scrabbled for the younger man's back, pressing his front against the hot skin that drove him to madness. "_Aye_, right _here_."

There were no words.

"Right _h-here_. I want … touch me _here_." His fingers trembled as they made themselves to the slick expanse of his chest, finally touching the rigid peaks of flesh. He found his tongue all too traitorous—all too dry—in his mouth, coercing him to rut desperately against the stone of a master Ezio had become. "I beg…"

"What are you expecting?"

Play with them, his conscious demanded. Play with them, lick them, bite them, _hurt_ them. Have his dirty legs open just by a simple tug.

_Control_ him.

"Y-Y-You know what I … what I _d-desire_."

"_Oh_?" Wickedness teased his ribs, sliding dangerously close to his utmost curse of desperation. "Then show me how."

"_Per_ _fa_—"

"Show me how."

_God_.

"Show me how much of a whore you are."

**XIII.**

On the floor. Then the wall. The bed. The desk. The window. Thrown onto his own canvas. In his messy paints. Over his journals, his notes. Hanging from his roof.

In his very soul.

Make his voice crack, his body break, to force him to acknowledge direction. Make him bend and snap, slide against the vertigo. Make him _submit_.

Make him no man, but the hungriest beast alive.

**XIV.**

"How many of these did you play with?"

_All_ of them.

"Which one is your favorite?"

_All_ of them.

"Tell me: How many do you want inside you?"

_All _of them.

"And how much do you want of _me_?"

**XV.**

Ezio withdrew himself and grabbed Leonardo's legs, wrenching them apart as he heard a weak cry tumbling out of that sinful mouth—the struggle for whatever supposed decorum was more foolish than the plea to stop his commands, the limp body underneath him much too malleable. It was with his eyes that he saw his seed tainting the other's thighs; it was with his hands that he grabbed what he wanted; it was with his body that he smothered.

It was with his tongue that he took what he already had.

And he was hungry, _ravenous_, forcing his tongue inside as he consumed the potent taste of his own release and the core of the other man himself. He pressed his face into the latter's body, his insatiable appetite fueling the sagacity of his fingers, mouth, tongue, teeth, and hands—how he _devoured_ every single sliver of the both of them. And then, he ate and ate and _ate_.

To find that it was still not enough.


	4. Chapter 4

**XVI.**

See him.

Hear him.

Smell him.

Touch him.

"Should you deserve such a reward?"

Taste him.

"I shall resort," he breathed, "I shall resort to _begging_, if I must."

_Behold_ him.

"Then do so."

Make him his, and his alone.

**XVII.**

"Who do you spread these legs for?" Ezio demanded, pulling his hair back as he pushed in deeper. "Who do these legs belong to?"

_You_.

"Who can make you hunger like this?"

_You._

"Who can give you hysteria above any other?"

_You_.

Then came the most selfish endeavor of all, that wicked hand smoothing itself over his body, only to rest over his bosom, the cresting of the wave.

"And who owns the depths of this heart?"

**XVIII.**

Give him more, and he will plead like the greediest whoremonger ever set onto this Earth; give him less, and he still plead—only for more.

He can take it: He was meant to take it. Spread his legs, fuck him over the edge of the bed, the window, on the hardness of the ground, against the wall, any place to sate his unquenchable thirst for more carnal satisfaction. The presumption that he is a pure saint who bestows kind smiles and happiness is naught but the outward assessment of his niche—for here, where his mouth and the curve of his buttocks make up the entirety of his obsession, he is an ravenous bitch that is eager for the taking. He will trade that veil of incorruptibility for a cloak of darkness that leaves him aching for more of the brink of more, the last of giving more.

And Ezio is all too kind to give it to him.

**XIX.**

"It … it will n-not fit …"

"Yes, it will."

"_Ezio_."

Removing the trembling hand on his forearm, Ezio plunged inside of the older man and held his wrists on either side of his face, his grip unrelenting. "It _will_ fit."

"_N-N-No_, I cannot—"

"You wanted more; thus, you shall receive more," the other commanded, positioning the ivory phallus next to his already embedded cock. "So open your legs and put your ass up."

How could this _be_?

"You will enjoy this more than you think you will."

**XX.**

It is a game they play.

Leonardo always makes the first move—he smiles at Salai; he smiles and laughs and shows him the quirk of his lips at the smallest of comments and innuendos; he does not shrug off that touch on his cheek and chest, the touch of the devil on his skin. He acts shamelessly—shamelessly innocent, that is. He makes the first move and waits for the countering.

Which Ezio does.

Ezio plays the outward nonchalance perfectly; he does not remark upon anything; he does not throw petty fits like the others; he waits and waits and waits; he is a patient man for the sun to go down. The candlelight in the darkest of nights is his companion.

That is where he strikes.

He is merciless. He reciprocates wildly; he is a voracious tyrant that takes what he wants, what has already been his; he is unforgiving, and he drives into Leonardo endlessly as he rips the bed off of its hinges and crashes the windows as well as the workshop around them; he is an unappeasable beast in heat; he is ruthless in this little game.

"Salai, how good to see you!"

No one can best him.


End file.
